


Epistolarium

by AssistedRealityInterface



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, mama gecko, rape mentioned but not described, uncle eddie is trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:12:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssistedRealityInterface/pseuds/AssistedRealityInterface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie was told by his father and his uncle all his life that his mother was long gone. And then letters start to arrive in the mail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epistolarium

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely inspired by House of Leaves, right down to the code in one of the letters. Also, because I enjoy suffering, and making Richie suffer, and writing the baby Geckos with Uncle Eddie: Terrible But Loving Parent. Anyway, god only knows what really happened to mama Gecko, but wouldn't this be an interesting take?

The only reason Richie ever found out about his mother was because Uncle Eddie was too drunk to go get the mail.

In Eddie’s defense, he had just met with Richie and Seth’s social worker for a two hour meeting about their school performance and emotional well-being, and stumbled back home growling, “Fucking therapists, fuck does she know, _my kids my rules,_ I need a fucking drink, hey Richie, get me a beer willya?”

And Richie did, because when Uncle Eddie drank he just watched _The Price is Right_ and didn’t hit him or Seth, and he _liked_ when Richie sat next to him and told him how the person playing the gameshow messed up.

So: Uncle Eddie was drunk, and Elvis was yapping at the mailman, as per usual. Elvis didn’t like gameshows, Richie had noticed. Except for _Wheel of Fortune._ He was a good dog and sat patiently for all of that. It was Elvis barking at his fondest nemesis, the mailman, that made Richie leave his room, scratching behind Elvis’ ear and watching the mail truck stuff envelopes in their mailbox.

“Wanna go get the mail, boy?” Richie asked as the mailman drove away, the small white car puttering to the next house. Elvis wagged his tail, his whole body wriggling as Richie hitched a leash to his collar and was dragged outside by the dog.

“It’s just you and me, Elvis,” Richie said as he opened the mailbox. “Seth’s at school ‘cause his teacher says he needs extra help. And he’s mad and all huffy about it, so he wouldn’t let me stay with him. Which is stupid. Which is probably why he needs the extra help, stupid.”

Elvis wagged his tail at the sound of Seth’s name. Richie sighed. “Yeah, I know. He does his best. But he sucks at this stuff, so that’s why he’s got me. And I got him to deal with people, ‘cause they’re the worst.”

He rubbed Elvis’ mottled breed-of-many-colors coat. “Not you though. Dogs are good.”

Elvis’ one pointed ear perked up. Richie let him turn and focus his attention on the slow, trundling mail truck as he sifted through the envelopes and leaflets and grocery catalogues.

 “There’s a sale on plantains, but their texture is yucky,” Richie said to himself, “and a big TV on sale at Aldi’s, but we can’t afford that right now ‘cause of my glasses, I think.”

He frowned. “Stupid, junk mail, stupid, bills, magazine order forms…”

It was the smell that clued him in. The neat, mechanical handwriting was devoid of all personality, the letter addressed to “Edward Joseph Gecko” in stark black ink. The return address was from a place Richie had never seen or heard of, the name curling brittle and thorny in his brain.

 _“Dunsmouth Sanitarium?”_ Richie said, wrinkling his nose. He lifted the envelope to his face and sniffed, head cocked slightly.

The smell. He hadn’t imagined it. The faint tinge of alcohol that told him perfume had been sprayed on the paper, on the thick white envelope and its contents inside. The paper smelled like…like—

Hints of vanilla, and something sticky and floral Richie had no name for but _knew,_ knew in some gut-deep back-of-the-brain primal memory, dredged up from the sludge of early childhood. There was someone he knew—had known—who had smelled like this.

Richie held the envelope against his chest like a child, cradling it and holding the rest of the mail at arm’s length, bringing Elvis back inside and closing the screen door so it didn’t bang. Eddie was already asleep, his beer half-finished. Richie crept past him, put the rest of the mail on the table, and then went back to his room.

He slipped the envelope under his pillow, patted it, and then went back out into the living room. Eddie turned his head slightly in his direction and Richie flinched until he saw his eyes closed tight.

Richie snuck past him, took his half-drunk beer and had a long, hard sip. It burned and frothed and he did his best not to cough, even though it was gross, bolting back to his room and climbing under the covers.

He looked around once, twice, and opened the letter.

          “My dear sweet brave eddie,

          I miss you, darling. They’ve repainted my room. It’s a shade of pink I am supposed to find soothing. It looks like salmon vomit. _C’est la vie, c’est la mort,_ I suppose. i am so, so bored!!

the other residents are so uninteresting. Nothing like you my brave precious. They are so teriribly terifically boring! You are so smart and clever with your big strong hands. i miss you. I miss when you used to hold me and we danced. You always handed me back to your brother but I love you for sharing. So kind.

Wouldn’t it be funny if you came here and threw knives? Silly! the other residents would get such a kick out of it!! i know I would. Remember when you used to do the William tell with you r brother and me? it was so much fun. once you took a curl off my head but i forgive you. I always forgive you.

My therapist  he says i am doing better. I am so glad! that is why i am writing this to you because I am good enough for paper and pencils now. i am going so well and the new mediciation is working great! Everyone is happy. The Director is relieved.

Unfortunately, there is no chance for visitation this month. i am going to miss you so much! someday you will bring my baby. Won’t you? I can’t wait to see you!

All my love,

Mrs. Pelafina Gecko, apple on her head.”

Richie took the letter in his trembling hands. Held it close, so the perfume could soak into his fingertips. He kissed the stamps and the name on the letter, then folded it up neatly and got out of bed, putting it back in with the mail.

He didn’t say anything to Uncle Eddie when he brought the mail in, putting it on the table. He stared at the envelope with its thick, cream-yellow paper, then went back into the living room and climbed onto the couch with Eddie, laying his head on his uncle’s lap.

Richie didn’t say anything for a little while. Uncle Eddie’s fingers had come down to rub at the nape of his neck, and even though Richie’s whole body trembled with pressure, he didn’t try to brush him off.

“She guessed wrong,” Richie finally said, jerking his head towards the television. Eddie chuckled.

“S’at right? I believe ya, kid,” he said. “You okay?”

“My head hurts,” Richie said. Uncle Eddie removed his fingers.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he said. “You up for Mickey D’s tonight, or too much?”

“I’d like that,” Richie replied. “You sure we can?”

“It’s fuckin’ Mickey D’s, not the Ritz,” Eddie scoffed. “If you and Seth can sit in the car without bickering for ten minutes I’ll buy you both flurries.”

Richie knew they couldn’t do that, but he also knew Uncle Eddie didn’t _really_ mind that they did, so he didn’t complain. He sat on the couch, silent, and waited for Seth to come home.

That night, his teeth still cold from the ice cream, Richie lifted up Seth’s blanket and climbed into bed with his brother, snugging against Seth.

“Hi, stupid,” Seth mumbled, nuzzling into Richie. “Can’t sleep?”

Richie nodded, his fingers curling into Seth’s ratty tee shirt, finding the occasional hole in the fabric and hooking his fingers into it. Seth huffed, playing with his hair. “Okay, stupid. Don’t piss the bed on me.”

“I don’t piss the bed, _you_ piss the bed,” Richie retorted.

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you,” Richie replied, hugging his brother tight. “Seth? I’m really glad you’re still here.”

“Hey, me too,” Seth yawned. “G’night, Richie.”

Richie didn’t sleep that night. He listened to Seth breathe, curled against his brother so he could hear his heartbeat, thudding against his ears like a second pulse.

…

Richie did not think about the letter for another two days. He did not let it bother him. In school, he was the same. He read the books from the big-kid library and helped Seth cheat on a math quiz because it wasn’t Seth’s fault they’d spent all their time studying their father’s expressions, the tone of his voice, the little intricacies of his body language to keep from getting beat. Seth could ace that kind of test.

He did, however, go out and check for the mail every day.

“Thanks for helping ‘round the house, kid,” Eddie said, sitting at the kitchen table and going over job listings, a cigarette in his mouth. “You don’t have to, y’know.”

“It’s okay,” Richie said, putting the mail, perfume-less and motherless on the table. “I don’t need to study or nothin’, so I don’t care.”

Eddie snorted. Richie sat at the table and Eddie passed him the funnies and he read the comics in silence, mouthing the dialogue to himself, reading about how Calvin refused to take a bath for his mother.

Two more days passed. Seth had to stay behind for extra help again, because they’d moved onto a new story in their reader and he couldn’t read it. It wasn’t his fault though. Seth read _Calvin and Hobbes_ and _The Far Side_ with him just fine. It was just that their readers were stupid. Seth was so clever and smart and the teachers never saw it ‘cause they were so mad he didn’t say words like “energize” and “pterodactyl” right and swore when he got them wrong.

Richie sighed and watched the mailman trundle past. He looked at the couch. Eddie wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the kitchen, either. Maybe meeting with a friend? Must be. There were only so many rooms in the house.

Richie crept out to the mailbox without waking up Elvis on the porch, bringing a stack of letters in. He sat at the table and sifted through them until the perfume-smell hit him again, a harsh wave that still managed to feel like it was stroking his face with the scent.

He read the name on the front. Same as before. It wasn’t a trick. Nobody could get a trick like that past his Uncle Eddie. No one would dare fuck with a Gecko that way. So it was. So it was—so it was.

“So it is,” Richie mumbled to himself. “So it is. So it has to be.”

He peeled the glue off the back of the envelope slowly, precisely, his little fingers as sure as ever. Not a single inch of him shook. He sat in the kitchen with the midafternoon light falling over his shoulders, a stone gathering words in his brain together like moss.

          “My dear, sweet Eddie,

          you haven’t written in a few days. its all right. I forgive you. its not like you’ve got much to talk about, with the life you lead. i miss when you were in prison. life was so much more interesting there, wasn’t it? You were so wild and proud in prison. eVery day I got a letter from you telling me about the fights you had and the men you beat. you never spared the gory details, but it was nice. i love, ,love, love—love hearing you hurt bad men. It makes you so brave, and good. You never

          you never hurt my husband? Your brother. Or me. even though we were both bad. that’s all right. I forgive you. i always always forgive you. Even when you don’t beat me. Or your brother. Or send me new letters. I have all of them in a box.

The Director searches the box. i am sure he reads my mail, too, and if this letter gets to you, well. i suppose he must think it must be funny, to toy with a poor girl’s head like this.

          my therapist says my husband died in a fire, and my two little boys are living with you. None of that is true. Further proof you need to come get me. you broke out of prison, didn’t you? you’re living on your own now. if you can escape a prison, surely can escape a me? Out of here?

i had a husband, and he never used his big ugly hands to beat me, but I could feel the idea hot under his skin, wriggling. I’m sure of it. It was in his eyes and when he opened his mouth I could see the same pair of eyes looking back at me from the top of his throat. they were big, bad eyes. The sort of eyes i saw on my precious baby boy. i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry.

How is my little precious? He must be so big and strong. So good with his daddy, so love full. My daddy was so happy when he held my baby. Do you remember? Where you there? Because I don’t remeemeber. Remember. Remember, renember, it is getting so difficult to

GOD, am I ever tired! I am Ever Tired! Sleep does not come easy in this place. Screaming, screaming, screaming, screaming, sometimes its me screaming, screeming, screaming

My little precious angel. My baby baby baby boy. My sweet silly brave Edie. Remember when you and my husband would fight over me? Big teasing strokes of your hands cut the air like big thighs spread wide and you fought over my pussy and I laughed and I think I chose the wrong brother, I think I am almost definitely most assuredly sure I chose the wrong brother. chose the wrong me. definitely almost certain

My little smart baby and his little hands and his soft thick black hair. He had so many when I pushed him out of my belly so many big hairs. his eyes were big and lovely and full of love for his mommy!

I have started to see a new therapist. He is probably reading these letters over The Director’s shoulder, because he Is a bad, evil man like my daddy. His hands are different, though. So tiny and pathetic. Silly, stupid man. He tries to put them over my mouth when he touches me but his fingers cant reach the other side of my lips!! haha!!

he keeps telling me, insisting even, that my husband is gone and i have two sons who live with you now but that cant be right because someone would have told me

I miss my old doctor and my old medicination. This one isn’t working right. I can see eyes in everyones throats now bi g and white all the way in the back and when I tel them so they cose their mouths and don’t stop talking to me so the eye blinks and blinks and blinks and I cant take it out their lips are sealed!

anyway. My little precious baby silly eddie. silly big brave boy I love you so. I used to sit on your lap and you told me to dance for you. i was too shy and stupid to do it then but I wish I could now. iwish i could but theres no more room. this bed is so big and this room is so small and if they catch me jumping on the bed I am In Trouble

little precious baby. My sweet little angeleyed sweetiecakes babywinged boy. Is he so beautiful now? He is so beautiful and precious? I am so glad.

I am so sorry my sillysweet little babypie angelfaced boy. My precious little newling. My little newling mewling infant who sucke on my breast so sweetly. I am so so sorry. I am so very bad your brave big uncle eddies big strong hands should beat me up!!

i am so, so sos os sosos so so sos ossosos soo osososo soso osososos so os so sos os ssos so ssos sos sos so sos so sos sos sos sos sos sos soss oossoos ssososoosos sossoo soooooooooo so very very very very very very very every veryeververyvery veryevreyvery sorry

you don’t have a brother to grow up with anymore

give him all my love my lovely baby sweetipei angielface my big brav eeddie I have ti put this paper away tyhey are going wit hmy medicication and if the doctor opens his mouth I will se ehis eyes and scream

all my everencompassing most precious warm love,

Mrs. Pelafina Gecko, mother of two, murderer of one

Richie put the paper down. He did not cry. He could not cry. It would be stupid and dumb and if Eddie read the letter there would be tear stains on it and he would know. And then Richie would be In Trouble. Just like his mom.

Like his mom. His _mom._

Richie folded the paper up neatly and slid it back into the envelope. Then, just as carefully, he pried one of the stamps off the envelope, smoothing over the peeled paper, and breathed it in—the envelope, the stamp, everything that clung to her scent, tying her close and tight to Richie.

Then he got up, put the envelope on the kitchen table, and went and sat on the couch watching _The Price is Right_ until it turned into _Hollywood Squares,_ then turned into _Wheel of Fortune,_ then turned into _Jeopardy,_ then turned into a _Gunsmoke_ rerun as Seth came inside and heated up dinner in the microwave, but Richie didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

“Hey,” Seth said, sitting next to him with a blue plastic tray of Kid Cuisine. “You not talking tonight?”

Richie flapped his hands, smacking them against his knees. The way his forearm flexed made his whole body relax. Seth nodded. “Cool. You not moving tonight?”

Richie repeated the motion and Seth passed him a chicken nugget.

“Uncle Eddie left a note on the counter,” Seth said. “He had to go meet with some new lady assigned to our case. We have like half the fuckin’ office up our ass these days. Stupid. But if you feel like eating later, I’ll heat the other one up for you.”

Richie didn’t nod, but he did scoot a little closer. Seth sighed. “All right, all right. You can have my brownie. Here.”

Richie took it from his hands without screaming at the contact, which scraped his skin and smelled like perfume, and ate it wordlessly while staring at the television, trying to find eyes in the back of every open mouth on screen.

…

Another letter took a month to arrive. Third grade ended and summer vacation began. Richie was almost ten. Or Seth. They weren’t actually sure, so Eddie just had two parties a year for both of them. Not that the party was much more than Mickey D’s and a cake from the ice cream place up the street, and maybe a new shirt, but Richie couldn’t have cared less. The only thing he wanted this year was a letter.

It was the hottest, ugliest, nastiest day of the year, when sticky brown dust clung to every drop of sweat and the grass stabbed your feet, dry and desperate, trying to take blood instead of water. The screen door banged open and shut in the breeze generated by the three fans Eddie had gone to the supermarket and bought yesterday. He laid out on the couch, an ice cold beer balanced on his stomach.

Seth was at summer school. Only for a few more days. It wouldn’t last long, and then he could stay with Richie. That was the only reason he hadn’t just let them hold him back a grade. The thought of going on without Richie was the only thing keeping his brother in a classroom, just barely.

It was just Richie, sitting in the dirt, waiting for the mailman to trundle past. He could almost image how the letter would smell. Soft and silky-sweet and stinging just a little bit of alcohol.

The contents of the last letter, which would have consumed any rational adult with concern, had completely eluded Richie. It was a letter from his mother and he had received more than one, which meant he might get a third, which meant that he had to wait. What was inside the letter would matter later. For now—for now—

The mailman pulled up, and handed the mail to Richie rather than putting it in the box. They exchanged a nod, and Richie pressed the sheaf of paper to his face, inhaling, as soon as the mailman was gone.

_Perfume._

He crept past Uncle Eddie on the couch. The radio was playing the Yankees game. Why, Richie wasn’t sure, given that they were in Kansas. They must’ve been playing the Kansas baseball team. The television was running a showing of _Sunset Boulevard,_ and Richie wanted to stay and watch, but the letter beckoned to him. He set the rest of the mail on the counter and sat in the kitchen corner, the fridge’s cool metal soothing the sweat on his back as he opened the letter.

          “my dear beloved eddie,

          THe nEw Director said i am allowed to send You letters again. what a joy that is! i Have missed you dearly. i Am doing much better. the new mediciation is something Vile though, fat and sticky gobs that stick to my throat. thE powdery pills cRack in my mouth And there is so little water in this Place. or maybE its just me? i Don’t know anyMore. thE typEwriter they give me is Doing its best but the Damn keys stIck so oftEn. i Have askEd for a word processor but onLy time will tell if i can acquire one. they can be so fussy with their budgets around here, and Please doesn’t do Me any favors. thEy insIst i Am just Making a fuss to Be difficuLt. why don’t thEy trust me Eddie? Don’t they know I am gettiNg better? i want to Go home. i want to see my son. I want to Apologize. his brother would have been just like you i think. you are My special Guy my brave wOnderful boy and I love you my son my sweet edie. how is my boy? did you tell him about what his mommy has doNe? he’ll never forGive me. i canT have him visit. yOu understanD don’t you eddIe? my bravE big strong eddie and His big strong hands you usEd to tell me i was too little to take all of you in but aRe you surE now? i feel so immeasurably vast.

          it is so hard to remember things these days. the sticky slupryp medicaition it slides down my throat gums up the eyes i feel boiling the back of my throat. i remember one thing. my precious baby boy, my angel, you would have been ten now.

happy birthday my precious angel baby boy i am so so sorry about everything so sorry. when your brother grew hot in my belly while i was still bleeding from you i couldn’t help myself. it was too much. you are going to be so much stronger than your mommy. with much more careful hands.

with all my clumsy love,

Mrs. Pelafina Gecko, who has an eye for capital letters.”

Richie put the letter down and picked up a pencil. He scratched out every capital letter he found in the note, putting the words together. He stared at the sentences he had formed and gripped his pencil in his fist, the wood splintering in his grip.

She was right. A mother always knew. His hands had been much, much more careful than hers.

“So. You got the mail, kiddo?”

Richie looked up, a flash of anger clouding his vision so he didn’t see the grief weighing heavily on Eddie’s expression.

“You lied to us.”

“I did.” Eddie opened the fridge and got a beer. Paused, squinted at the fridge contents, and shrugged. “Here. Fuck it. You or your brother’s gonna be ten in a couple months. Have a shot.”

He took out some sticky slaughterhouse-red fruit punch and dumped it in a cup. It ran over his fingers and gathered in the folds of his knuckles as he tossed a shot of Southern Comfort in and passed the glass along to Richie. Richie took a long, hard sip, his hand clenching the cup, his small fingers white and stained with red.

It stuck to his throat. It tasted like medicine. Richie bent his head over and threw it back up. He retched, a long, hard, _yaaaarp_ sound, then threw the glass. The juice slopped all over the floor, a slash of color on the linoleum. Eddie had mopped yesterday, but he didn’t complain. He just sat down next to Richie and rubbed his back.

“I didn’t want you to ever, ever know,” Eddie said. “That must make me the shittiest parent in the whole world. But I could deal with that. It was my burden to carry. You shoudn’t—you shouldn’t have had to see her like that. That’s not who she was.”

“ _Yes it is,”_ Richie said, his throat wet, burning with liquor and bile. “ _Yes it is_ and it’s _me, too,_ and—“

“No, no, no,” Eddie said. “Richie, c’mon, don’t say that, it’s not—“

“You don’t _get_ crazy, Uncle Eddie,” Richie said, tears dripping down his cheeks. He had the strangest idea as his eyes smarted; it would be so easy to take his glasses off and crush them in his fist, grind the glass into his eyes, see what he could see, “You just _are._ Like mom. Like _me.”_

“Richie, you’re not fucking crazy, you’re my fucking kid, and if anyone’s been telling you—“

“ _Mom left,”_ Richie said, flapping his hands listlessly, reaching out to crack his joints, pulling hard on his fingers as the bone flexed underneath. “ _Mom left ‘cause she couldn’t stand the sight of you.”_

“That’s not it at all, that’s not what happened—“

“Mom left, mom left, cause she couldn’t stand the sight of you, the sight of you, the sight of you, the sight—of—you—“

Richie pushed the heels of his palms against his eyes, his glasses pressing cold into his forehead, marking lines in his skin where he’d shoved them up. “Uncle Eddie, I don’t need glasses. We’re gonna go poor. Couldn’t stand the sight. Sight of you.”

“We’re not going to end up in the poorhouse, it’s one pair of fuckin’ glasses,” Eddie lied. “Richie, kiddo, that’s not—“

“Mom said she _killed us!”_ Richie screamed. “She _hurt us!”_

There was a silence. Eddie sighed, low and long. “No. Not both of you. Just one.”

He sat against the kitchen chair, his head lolling to the side slightly as he tried to remember. “I was in jail by then. Only got this secondhand. But your daddy watched her wrap her hands around your throat.”

“My throat?”

“Dunno. He didn’t remember. Must’ve been too young to tell you two apart still.”

“You could be lying.”

“At this point, why would I fuckin’ bother?”

Richie considered. “True.”

“Anyway. She wanted to kill you, Richie. She was sobbing. She was—she was in a bad way. I don’t think she ever wanted…” Eddie sighed. “You don’t need to know this. She wanted to love you. She really, really did.”

“But her brain was wrong and bad,” Richie said, looking down at his hands. “Like mine.”

“No. Not like yours,” Eddie said firmly. “You love me, right?”

Richie nodded, fat tears hitting his palms. Eddie nudged his shoulder gently. “You love Seth, right?”

“The whole world,” Richie said, thinking of cigarettes and liquor, and playing with fire in careful, careful hands, and how easy it had been to see everything go up in smoke. For Seth, anything.

“And Elvis loves you, and you love Elvis, I know you do,” Eddie said. “There are different kinds of crazy, Richie. You’re crazy like a fox, all clever and curious and not quite one thing or the other. Your momma started out like that too.”

“So—“

“Wasn’t finished,” Eddie said. “She started that way. But your father and I…I think we did somethin’ to her we could never, ever do to you. And that’s hurt.”

There was a long silence. Eddie’s trembling hand went to his pocket, lit a cigarette. It dangled between his fingers, glowing like a sunset.

“We fucked her up,” he finally said. “We fucked her up real bad. And we were too young and stupid to know it.”

He finally took a drag. He sucked too hard and the ashes coated his throat. He let them burn him. “That’s why I get her letters, and why when she’s able to see visitors, I visit. Because this is my burden to carry for her. As much as I can.”

“I want to go.”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie said. “Richie. She doesn’t know you.”

“ _Yes she does,”_ Richie insisted. “I—I’m her baby boy. Her precious…her precious angel. I’m turning ten. She said. She _said.”_

“I know she did,” Eddie said. “I know.”

Richie fiddled with his hands. Eddie didn’t push him. A fly trundled in from outside, lighted down on the spilled juice, and buzzed off abruptly, disgusted.

“Is she going to get better?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Am I going to end up there too?”

“I will do whatever it fucking takes to make sure you don’t.”

“Oh. Okay.” Richie inspected his nails. “If I do. Can you visit me? Please.”

Eddie nodded.

There was another silence. Slowly, agonizingly aware of every flex of muscle, nerve, and bone, Richie slid off the chair and crept into his lap. Eddie didn’t hold him. He just let Richie sit and watch the sunlight catch on the stained floor.

“It’s four o’clock. Can we go watch _The Price is Right?”_

“Sure, kiddo,” Eddie said, hefting Richie up with one arm, walking into the living room and settling him down on the couch, turning the television on. They watched until the first commercial break, Richie taking in all the information on the screen.

“We can’t tell Seth?”

“I don’t think we should.”

“She’s his mom too.”

“She’s…suffering,” Eddie sighed. “And he’s been through enough these past two years. Please. She’s not going to die. She might even get better. But until then, I’m all the family you’ve got. Okay?”

Richie nodded. “Okay.”

He could put the train of thought together in his mind with ease, like clicking Legos together. His mother was alive. Suffering, alone, in a bad place that she said hurt her even worse. But Uncle Eddie could go visit. Because she wasn’t convinced she’d killed Uncle Eddie. Just him. Or maybe Seth. So they would just hurt her if they went. Make her see things she didn’t want to see. And he knew that. But he knew Seth wouldn’t know. Couldn’t know.

“I’m sorry,” he said to empty air. “I love you.”

“I love you too, kiddo,” Uncle Eddie said, rubbing his back as Richie laid down next to him. He didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure who he had been speaking to.

The woman on the screen smiled so big and bright, white and gleaming like eyes. Richie reached out a hand and she was gone, back to commercials.

That night, Richie laid in bed across from Seth, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t picture his mom. Just the smell of her perfume.

“Seth?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you…do you remember mom?”

“No. Why, do you?”

Richie covered his eyes with his hand. “No. No, I don’t…”

“Hey, s’all right,” Seth said. “You got me, right? And you got Uncle Eddie, and Elvis, and we don’t need anybody else, right?”

_I think she needs us, Seth._

“Right,” Richie agreed.

There was a silence.

“Richie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I come sleep in your bed?”

Richie just threw the blanket back. Seth climbed in without a word, snuggling under his brother’s arm. He still slept so tightly curled, even after two years safe and sound with Uncle Eddie. Richie arched over him, shielding him with the bow of his body.

“Why would you wanna sleep in my bed, dumbass? It’s so hot out here.”

Richie didn’t get an answer. He blinked. “Seth?”

He rolled over and sighed. Seth was already asleep, snuggled against Richie’s arm that had reached out over him to shield him from the dark. He scooted closer to his brother and laid his head against his shoulder.

“Don’t be mad, okay?” Richie said. “I love you so much. More than mom can right now. More than anybody else in the whole world.”

He closed his eyes. Just as he tried to settle in for a miserable night tossing and turning, a breeze came through the window, smelling faintly of lilac flowers, their leaves rustling from outside. Richie inhaled, big and deep, soothed to sleep by what remained of his mother in his memory.

The next morning, he got out of bed before Seth. The wildfire yesterday had cooled, and now when he touched grass on the lawn outside, it tickled his feet, wet with dew. Richie stood out in front of the mailbox and looked at his letter. He read and re-read and re-re-read his address until he was sure he’d gotten both correct. Then he lifted the letter to his face.

He didn’t wear perfume. So he’d put a little bit of fruit punch on the back, and the hot mixture of blue raspberry Jell-O, before it went into the fridge. It wasn’t much, but maybe it would help her remember, too.

Richie put the letter in the mailbox, put the flag up, and walked away. In the nearby tree, he could hear baby chickadees calling to their mother with huge, desperate mouths, wailing and waiting for her to come home.


End file.
